


Come Stay

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Charleston (Location), Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, Handyman Dean, M/M, Permanent Injury, Post-Apocalypse, Romance, Sam Has a Dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:11:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1601090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean always thought they had to settle in order to settle down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Stay

**Author's Note:**

> **Come Stay** is from a Gullah proverb, saying " _Come see ein like come stay_." [Literally, 'Come see (dating) isn't the same as come stay (a lifelong commitment).']
> 
> This was written to honor my precious city! I could imagine Sam and Dean settling here once all was said and done. Thank you to dugindeep for the beta.
> 
> Originally posted to LJ: April 2010

The first thing they do is sell the boat. They'd bought the place in foreclosure and the price included everything on the land: from the pile of pressure-treated pine boards at the edge of the lot, to the small Cape Islander lolling happily at the end of the long-dock. Dean had taken one look at it and refused to take it out—bodies of water aren't his thing.

Sam doesn't argue. He snaps a few pictures and has it sold through Craigslist in less than a week.

With the money, they buy a second car. The Impala's running fine—more indestructible than any other Winchester—but Dean hates navigating her around the potholes dug into their access road and Sam needs something. The old Jeep they settle on is in good shape; it's practical enough for Sam, not enough of a vehicular abomination for Dean to refuse. It drives smoothly on the dirt roads leading from the highway, skipping easily over the rough surfaces.

Paradise Island wasn't their first choice for settling down. The East Coast remains fairly intact; the real damage doesn't start until you go west of the Appalachians. But there's something about the barely-developed stretches of land—considered islands in these parts—cut out by the fading Wando River as it winds futilely back in the direction of the Atlantic. In those forgotten miles between Charleston and Myrtle Beach where life takes a step back—ten years or so—things are infinitely more quiet. And in the end, that's all Sam and Dean want. Quiet.

There may be half a dozen houses on the island, a puzzle piece of land nestled between the fading end of the Wando and the bulk of the Francis Marion Forest. Tall, spindly pines give way to the river's edge and wide stretches of marsh grass. There, live oaks sprawl, their roots clinging where the soil and clay turn into mud, trunks branching and curving towards the ground. Spanish moss clings to the trees through wind and rain, twisted and hanging like an old man's beard. Every dozen feet, a palmetto tree muscles its way between the trunks towards the sun. Ospreys nest and troll the tidal creeks for food. The large old trees form a perfect boundary: between the house and the river, the Winchesters and their closest neighbors on the next jut of land.

These days, the afternoons are endless hours of sunlight to be filled with any number of projects. They've come out of a mild winter into that beautiful stretch of days before the steamy summer's upon them. The Jeep's gone, leaving only the Impala sitting under a tarp to protect her from a yellow coating of pine pollen. In the yard, Dean looks from the pile of boards to the house, where there's only half of a deck built. The entire place is a mash of unfinished construction, main level raised off the ground by sturdy beams and concrete pillars, but the large porch stops ten feet before it's supposed to. The materials are there; Dean's got to build up the gumption.

He'd keep a list of things to do but it would never end, and Dean's not one for keeping score these days. Things get done when they get done, in no particular order. He takes care of the house while Sam's out doing whatever he likes. Dean doesn't ask because it's not important anymore. There are no secrets but they don't waste time over-sharing. Sam does what makes him happy, coming back with piles of books stacked in the passenger seat of the Jeep, so Dean guesses there's a library involved somewhere along the line. It's taken months, but they can finally _look_ at each other again. For that, more freedom and less conversation is a price Dean would pay ten times over.

Leaving the deck for another day, Dean steps out onto the long-dock, meanders down to the empty mooring and lets the mild breeze distract him from the ever-present brackish smell. The odor is good and bad at the same time, pungent and comforting in waves, quickly becoming one of those familiar smells that'll stick in Dean's sense memory no matter what happens. Pulled cotton clouds drift lazily through the sky far above his head. 

From the dock, Dean can see the entire lot, everything in the world that's _theirs_. It's certainly not perfect, but not one single thing in their lives ever has been. The house is a work in progress, abandoned mid-renovations and stuck between the old and the new. The yard is a random mess, like a large game of buried treasure. Dean dug up a pile of bricks the other day while trying to place iron-forged protection charms at each corner of the lot. A little white fence surrounds what might eventually bloom into a vegetable garden; Dean's not sure.

It's easy to pick up the rumble of Sam's Jeep getting closer—starts as an echo of his imagination and fleshes out into a real sound, the engine growling up their unpaved road. Dean hardly minds the hours alone but time has always run differently when Sam's close by.

As soon as the Jeep pulls up—usually forest green, now dusty yellow from pollen—Dean hears a sharp barking, louder when Sam opens the door. A dark dog jumps out of the Jeep right on Sam's heels, snout in the air to sniff out Dean. Another bark and the dog spins away towards him. Sam lets him go and starts unloading bags.

"Higgs." Dean lowers his voice as the large, flat-coated retriever bounds down the planks. "Good boy."

Dancing and weaving around Dean's legs, Higgins tilts his head up for Dean's hands, fingers scratching hard and rough behind the retriever's ears. Sam's stopped at the top of the dock; Dean catches him watching them both with a fond smile. "C'mon, back to the house, buddy."

He nudges Sam on the way back, gets his brother turned around. Higgins dashes ahead, stops to sniff at dog toys strewn on the grass, but nothing grabs his interest and he breaks for the stairs. He's a good dog, adopted when one of their neighbors decided to up and move to a condo in Myrtle Beach, though he takes up more than half the couch when he sprawls, leaving Sam or Dean—usually Dean—on the floor or in the chair.

Dean grabs the bags from Sam's hands and tempers his pace, a slow easy stride to match Sam's.

"I stopped by the depot and picked up our mail." They get junk mail now—addressed to Sam and/or Dean Wofford—and Sam brings home every piece just so Dean can toss them out. The Sewee Depot is a gas station, general store, diner, and post office combined into one old building, where the hundred or so residents of this stretch of coastline can take care of business without driving the thirty miles to grander establishments.

"Patrick said you could stop by anytime next week to look at his car," Sam adds. One flight up to the main level, Higgins is sitting and waiting for them at the top. "I took a look though. I don't think the fixes are anything you can't handle. I heard he can pay you pretty well, too."

"We can buy the rest of the stuff to fix this porch."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, sliding the glass door. "Or we could buy a grill."

"A grill it is. Half a porch is good enough."

Sam feeds Higgins while Dean makes dinner out of the groceries Sam picked up. The house gets darker, Sam switches on a few lights before they take their dinner to the couch. Higgins, fortunately, is stretched out on the floor between the trunk doubling as a coffee table and the TV. As the sun goes down, the cicadas pick up, a constant drone that's part of the nights these days. Sam leaves the sliding doors open, they get the fresh air along with the noise. When the dishes are clean, Dean settles on a network movie. Sam's leaning on the opposite arm of the couch with a paperback, pages yellowed and curled, his feet propped on the trunk next to Dean's.

There's no hunting anymore. Ghost and ghouls and goblins can deal with a new generation of hunters—the Winchesters are out of the game. Dead, as far as most people know, and no one's concerned. Dean only needs one hand to count the number of people who know the pair of 'em are still breathing; he wants to keep it that way. Sam doesn't miss it, Dean knows that for sure, and he only gets passing fancies. The hunts he reminisces on are years and lifetimes behind them—the simple salt 'n burns that took them from one coast to the other—but they're better left to memory.

Sam smacks the book on the couch and rolls his neck side to side. "Finished."

"Any good?" Dean sets his one beer on the trunk, just another moisture ring on the old piece of furniture.

"I guess," he yawns, flipping the book so that Dean can see the cover— _The Road_. "You want to read it before I return it to the library?"

"Yeah, leave it." Dean may get to it; he may not. "Got any plans tomorrow or do you want to help me with the front door? I've got the new screen to put in, maybe fix the front lights."

"Mmhmm." Sam's head lolls against the couch cushions. "Sure." 

He grabs Dean's bottle from the trunk when he stands up. It's not until the next commercial that Dean notices Sam hasn't come back. The biggest bedroom is at the back of the main floor, where their large mattress and box spring is still sitting on the old hardwood floor, garage-sale dresser piled high with books on one end, unfolded laundry on the other. The bathroom light is on and Dean sees Sam laying on top of the sheets, forearm folded over his eyes.

"Headache?"

"Not really," Sam says without looking. "Did you let Higgs out?"

"Yup, and then he stole your spot on the couch."

"Figures."

Bed's as good an option as any so Dean strips down to boxers. The cicadas are buzzing through the open windows when he comes out of the bathroom and flips off the light. Sam hasn't fallen asleep—his breathing isn't deep enough and his legs bend away from Dean's side of the bed when he crawls in. The sheets are still warm where Sam's feet just were. 

Dean leans up on his elbow. "You wanna?" 

Sam snorts and drops his arm to the bed, eying Dean from the comfort of his pillow. "Is that the best you can do?"

"I didn't know this was about romance, Sammy."

"Shut up and get over here."

He folds comfortably into Sam's side, the breeze from the window swirling cool over their bare shoulders. Sam's lips are dry and familiar, their mouths are breath-light together. The first kiss is always soft and slow as if to commemorate what they'd almost lost, a moment of silence before arousal crowds out the other emotions in Dean's mind. The rush comes quickly and Dean presses forward against Sam, his brother's hands grasping and pulling. His nose touches Sam's cheek, their tongues pushing deeper. They roll between the pillows, lips parting for excursions to temples, around the curve of an ear or the turn of a jaw.

Dean's never been fond of board games, but when he's feeling particularly detached from the first thirty-three years of his life, he likens the whole mess to one of those games. A fucked-up adventure, taking two steps forward and three back, at the whim of whatever cards they were dealt. But they made it to the final square together, more or less in one piece. There'd been no prize other than the rest of their lives to remember all they'd been through. Or, to forget and move on. This has always been part of their equation, whether or not they did anything about it. Now there is nothing stopping them—nothing Dean wants to waste his time thinking about. They've earned the right not to think.

Their boxers are quickly lost in the tangling sheets, wrapping tightly around their feet.

"I don't know why I bother," Sam sighs across Dean's mouth.

"Me neither," Dean agrees, guiding Sam's lips back towards his. "Just stay naked from now on."

"Jerk."

Sam rolls atop Dean before he can form the comeback. Dim moonlight catches on the ridges down Sam's left side, raised skin thrown into relief. Dean drags Sam back into the kiss without a second glance. He's done with scars—Dean feels no pull to worship the marks Sam carries, and Dean's got plenty of his own. He ignores the imperfections in favor of more important features. Sam's shoulders are still broad and strong, wide enough to span Dean's chest when Sam looms over him, kissing long and languid down Dean's throat. His brother's face is more real than anything else left in the world, a source of endless frustration and infinite comfort. Sam looks at Dean as if there are things he still needs to figure out; touches Dean as if he already knows everything. He lets Dean fuck him, not as if it's the first time or the last, but as if it's one of the countless occasions in between. They express their wants—needs, aches, love, anger—with fingers on each other's skin, leaving their own marks.

He can't hear the cicadas anymore, head hung low over Sam in the knot of their arms. Sam gasps and Dean's throat goes dry from panting, hips rocking against Sam until he squeezes his eyes shut and comes. Soft fingers tangle in Dean's hair until he backs away from Sam, just far enough that the heat between them doesn't dissipate. Enough space to lever down and get his mouth around Sam; he can't resist teasing him with light pressure for a moment. Quick strokes after that until Sam's muscles tense.

The breeze has picked up. Once they've picked their boxers out of the sheets and resituated on the bed, Dean hears the palm fronds clacking against the oak trunks down at the creek line. It feels good over their naked torsos, but Sam pulls the sheets up over their legs.

"Is the house locked?"

"'Course." Dean's muffled by the pillowcase. "You think I'd let us have unprotected sex?"

"Hilarious," Sam murmurs, sass countered by the sleepiness in his voice. "I'll wake you up for breakfast."

A whimper and scratching precedes Higgins pushing their bedroom door open, squeaky hinge catching the door before it hits the wall. The bed-on-the-floor arrangement suits the dog and he clambers up between their feet, parting Sam and Dean from the waist down. "Higgs, lay down." Sam sits up and pats the end of the bed, waiting for the dog to circle and settle. Dean watches Higgins find a suitable spot and flop down. Then Sam's back beside him, automatically rolling onto his stomach and shoving one arm under his pillow.

In the dark, after the burn of sex calms, is when things start coming back. Years of repression and flagellation—they can't be quelled or fixed in a few months, no matter how much peace and quiet is lumped on them. Every night, looking at Sam, Dean has to choke back the words. Apologies, curses—Dean's not sure what would come out.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Mhmm?" He sounds closer to sleep than consciousness. Dean must let the silence drag too long because as usual, Sam turns, seeks out Dean's eyes. "Go to sleep, Dean. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

They never talk about it the next day. Dean will wake up and smell the salt on the air, hear Higgins growling at squirrels and birds. He'll roll over and hit Sam's shoulder, acting like he wants to protest when Sam tries to cuddle. They won't talk about it, and Dean will be grateful. They'll have better things to do.

"Night, Sam."

 

FIN.


End file.
